I want this poem to be
found by you
like its been folded
so carefully in form
it is origami. A pointy
pure white dove
flown straight for you.

I want this poem to be
discovered by you
like it always existed.
But others just missed it.
Like it was winking
up in the milky way
for so long, for utter eons
even if the whole atmosphere
of it is already burned out
by the time it reaches you
it will still light up the world.

I want this poem to be
bloomed by you
like a fresh-born lily.
Like a stargazer waits bud-shut
in the hush hours of morning.
But it chooses now to open.
Like the petals knew all along
when and how to flourish. Since
your hand finally holds it.